I gave Terry, Greg’s father-in-law, two of my self-published books from the Four Seasons Series, Search for Justice, and Edge of Darkness.
He appeared happy and thanked me. I then gave Terry, Greg’s wife a hug and went to the pickup, threw my suitcase and laptop inside and we were off to Memphis to fly back to Spokane. The road trip back was uneventful, which I expected nothing less. After all, we are both AARP members and the 1970s are in our rearview mirror.
WE discussed all the problems of this country but honestly didn’t have a clue about solving it. His ideas and mine were on different paths. Perhaps maybe someone could find a way to bridge those paths but not today. Between driving me to the airport and talking politics Greg tried to get the Bluetooth working on the infotainment system of his Titan. “I can’t help you, bro. The Bluetooth on my Charger has never worked,” I told him as we crossed the Tennessee River and found ourselves in Mississippi heading north.
“It worked fine earlier,” he complained as I left myself a reminder not to buy a Nissan Titan in the near or distant future. It seemed that since I came along, there have been minor tics or bugs that has plagued this vehicle the last seven days. Yesterday, it was some weird thing going on with the ring tones from his phone that found itself playing on the speakers of his truck; now this.
We listened to the radio stations instead, mostly country though Greg eventually found a classic rock station that began playing Steely Dan. I didn’t recall the song. We started singing off key to the lyrics and then I said, “Greg, didn’t you tell me you don’t like jazz? Because Steely Dan’s entire reason for being is their jazz influence.”
“I don’t like certain aspects of jazz,” he explained to me patiently. “I also don’t care for the Rolling Stones because I can’t stand to look at Mick Jagger and those big lips of his, but I like their music.”
“Or Stephen Tyler of Aero Smith?” I asked.
“Exactly!” Greg exclaimed as a Led Zepplin song came on.
“This station’s playing some pretty righteous music, Greg.”
“Yeah, I’ll have to add this station to the presets.”
Like heading down, going back the traffic was moderate but became heavier the further north we went. A “Welcome to Tennessee” sign appeared and then another sign showed fifty miles to Memphis. As I mentioned earlier the climate here was very agreeable, seeming like a mildly hot summer’s in Spokane say in late August or early September. But, like I told Greg, the politics here is not my cup of tea. My pro-choice, pro LBGQ, pro-government views don’t sit well here or in my neck of the woods. As I wrote earlier, I had to hold my tongue many times because my views were in conflict with others including my own family.
Eventually Greg turned off one highway to another, an expressway leading into Memphis. Along the way we came on an accident with a small car, expensive looking SUV, and a semi. The semi won. The wreckage was widespread. The SUV was totaled while the truck sustained minor damage to its bumper, grill and left front quarter panel. “Looks like the SUV didn’t want to yield the right of way to that trucker,” I observed.
“You wouldn’t believe how many idiots out there have no respect for us truckers, thinking we can just back off or break for them when they pull in front of you. We got at least twenty thousand pounds sitting behind us as we’re driving on these highways. And they expect us to just slow down?” He asked incredulously. “It doesn’t work that way, as that idiot found out.”
He stopped at the Lowes to pick up a part for his trailer. I can’t remember what it was, but he left me in the truck while he went and picked up the part. Ten minutes later we were back on a back road and found our way via the navigator on his truck’s infotainment system.
We made it to the airport, and I noticed how big it was, generally a little smaller then Spokane’s, though we got federal funding from that infrastructure law Congress passed and plans for expanding were in the works.
He stopped in front of the Delta terminal. I got out and stretched, while he got my luggage and then for whatever reason I got emotional and hugged him fiercely hiding my face in his shoulder.
“I love you man,” I choked out.
“Shit, Jerry, stop it! I love you too. You going to get me to bawling too.” We disengaged and I wiped the tears from my cheeks and walked inside. Greg made it to his truck and got in.
After the ritual screening at the TSA site, I waited an hour for my next flight to Minneapolis. By the time we reached Minneapolis it was dark, and I saw various sports complexes where alit football fields made their presence known though I had no idea where teams they represented. None seemed big enough for the Vikings. I figured high school and possibly junior colleges were the culprits.
After we landed, not wanting to miss my flight here, I asked one of those airport service workers who drove a cart for a lift to the concourse I needed to go to, which was a very long distance away and I only had fifteen minutes to make my next flight. Ironically, the flight crew had come on another flight and were themselves late by the better part of twenty minutes. Somehow it all came together, and I was homeward bound, heading westward over the Dakotas and Montana, before finally arriving in Spokane a little before eleven that night.
I’ll see about making a return trip in a year or two. Today, I’m just grateful for this opportunity.
Jerry Schellhammer 